Seven Digit Kill
these seven digit numbers
can hide your scarred face.
the more you dial,
the more blood you taste.
the higher you climb,
the further you'll drop,
the quicker you'll stop.
can't you fasten
your rope onto some ledge?
broken carabineers
will make appointments missed.
and they charge fees,
for the left empty seats.
price for the absence of memories:
a hollow space on your finger turned green.
what once filled its hole,
was a symbol of control.
in the shape of love,
a ring polished just enough
to meet the requirements of state:
to pledge yourself,
physically, mentally,
unhesitantly, monetarily;
just enough to hide your hate.
what exactly, did you intend to create,
when you laid yourself out
upon that silver-plate,
with your high-cheekboned features,
your high-paying career,
that car you drive, your tailored suits,
and the sense of humor that you choose to use
to ever so quickly reel them in,
capture them in your finely decorated apartment,
where no one could ever intend to escape
the fresh style with which you rewrote their fate,
and give to them everything they could imagine,
and take from them everything they kept hidden
on the shelf at the center of their chest,
as you build for them an idol to detest?
you hold no sympathy,
breaking whatever your foot can reach.